I stood just inside her doorway, awkwardly, not knowing where to go. “I wouldn’t leave without telling you.”
“What time is it?”
“Just past six.”
“Are you going now?”
I shook my head.
She moved the covers down on one side of the bed as an invitation. Then she waited until I’d shrugged out of my jeans and gotten in her bed before lying back down. “Blake Hunter, you’re always saving me.”
I stayed quiet.
She sighed loudly. “Thank you for my note.”
“You knew it was from me?”
She moved so her head was in the crook of my arm. “No one’s ever called me beautiful but you.” I wanted to tell her that it was a shame. That she deserved to be told a million times over, but she spoke before I could get it out. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
“Of course.” And all the nights after that.
She settled in, her arm and leg resting on top of me. It was quiet, but I knew she was awake. I knew she was thinking.
“Do you want to talk about him—Clayton? Maybe it might—”
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“Tell me anything and everything, whatever you want.”
Chloe
Clayton’s dad had physically and sexually abused him when he was a kid. He’d hid it from everyone until he was ten. That was when his teacher had begun to notice certain things about him: He was closed off and never tried to make friends with the kids. He’d jump at loud noises and shrink into the corner when there was too much going on. His clothes were too small, worn at best. They’d smell so bad that some days his teacher had found clothes in the lost and found for him to change into. One day, she’d asked him to change in front of her. He’d told me he’d kind of known why she had, but he’d been too young to really comprehend the events that would follow once she’d seen the bruises and cuts all over him. The cops had been called.
And then his dad had killed himself.
I guessed some assholes could live with being a pedophile and raping little boys, just as long as nobody knew about it. Apparently, the death of his father had been a guilt Clayton had carried with him well into his teenage years.
By the time he’d turned sixteen, he was using. Pot at first, then, too quickly, heavier stuff. He’d kept it from me—just like he’d kept the fact that he was depressed and those drugs were his form of an upper. Dean and Mary had known and gotten him help when he’d agreed to it. It was strange, that when he was with me, it’d never showed. But when I looked back on it—I could see signs. Like how he’d frown when watching the kids or go days without speaking to anyone but me. Or be gone all weekend and nobody knew where he was.
When he was eighteen, he’d moved out, and things had gone from bad to worse. We’d tried to help him, but he’d kept us all at arm’s length, not wanting us to get involved in his mess, and concealed his secrets. He’d been in and out of jail, hadn’t been able to hold down a job or make money unless he was dealing, had barely spoken to or seen the family, unless it had been me. He always had time for me. It hadn’t been until a year and a half ago, when he’d met his girlfriend, Lisa, that things had begun to look up.
Her parents happened to own a restaurant in town that they were about to shut down. They’d offered him the work for six months, to see if it was worth saving. To him—it had been like being offered a second chance—one that he’d taken seriously. He changed the hours of operation, opening only at night through to brunch. He’d had trouble sleeping at night, so it had been perfect for him. And perfect for them. Soon enough, his girlfriend’s parents had welcomed him into their family, just like Dean and Mary had. And he’d needed that. He’d needed to know that he’d still been loveable; at least that was what he’d told me. And Lisa—she was great. She’d seen through his bullshit and seen the same person that I had. She was one of the few people who knew about his past, and had loved him, regardless. When she’d gone off to college in Savannah, a good four-and-a-half-hour drive away, they’d known it would be tough, but they’d promised to make it work. It had meant a lot of phone calls and coming home to visit when she could. And it had meant Clayton spending a lot of time on his own, time that I should have been there.
I should have seen it. I should have noticed him struggling. He’d always been able to know how I felt before I even realized it myself, but I’d been unable to do the same for him. He’d kept his feelings hidden so that I would never have to feel his pain. He’d always put me first, put everyone else first. He’d found a way to care for Mary and Dean and all the kids, even when he’d had no idea what it felt like to be cared for.
His past, his depression, the drugs—none of that was really who he’d been. To me—he would always be Clayton—the quiet boy who’d so easily become my best friend. My hero.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blake
“Blake.”
Something nudged my foot.
I waited a moment, trying to get my bearings. And then I remembered where I was and what had happened.
“Blake,” she said again.
When I opened my eyes, I expected to see her in bed next to me. But she wasn’t there. And it wasn’t Chloe who was saying my name.
It was Mary.
“Where’s Chloe?”
“She left early; she wanted me to come in and tell you that you should go to school and not wait around for her.”
“Oh” was all I could say.
“She just needs some time, Blake. It’s not like she doesn’t appreciate that you’re here for her.”
“I know that.” I shrugged. “I just wanted to see her. That’s all.”
She smiled warmly before leaving the room.
Chloe
His arms had felt nice around me.
I’d never felt the warmth of someone’s embrace before.
Not really.
Not before Blake.
Those clouds kinda look like Blake.
I brought the joint to my lips and inhaled deeply, blowing circles as I puffed out continuous, single, tiny breaths.
A lethal cocktail of recreational and prescribed pills—the cop’s words replayed in my head, over and over. But Clayton—he’d been smart. He’d known what the fuck he’d been doing. He’d wanted to die.
“I hope you’re happy, fuckhead,” I said aloud, ignoring the prickles of grass in and around my back. I was at an abandoned baseball field close to home. This was where Clayton and I had used to come and talk shit—a place where we’d pretended to have dreams. He was also my first kiss—right there—in that patch of grass. It had been gross, but he’d said that it shouldn’t be with some random guy I met at a party, just because he told me I was pretty. He’d said he wanted it to mean something. And it did. Even now, he’s the only guy I had ever kissed who meant something to me.
Before Blake.
“Have you seen my mom? My aunt Tilly?” I squinted at the sky, the sun so bright it made my eyes water. But I didn’t blink. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to use it as an excuse for these endless, goddamn tears. “What’s that?” I raised my heavy hand—or at least it seemed heavy—and cupped my ear. “No? You haven’t seen them? Then what the fuck was it all for, Clayton? Was it that bad here?”
I stopped myself and let out a sob. “I’m sorry,” I cried to the sky. “I didn’t mean that. I know you had your reasons, and I’m sorry that you couldn’t talk to me about them. I’m sorry that you felt like there was no other way.” I sat up and let the sob consume me. And when I was done—not just with the crying but with the entire joint—I got in my car, drove to the liquor store in the next town over, and bought a bottle of vodka.
I spent the night in my car in a constant cross-faded state.
Emptiness.
Perfection.
I woke up in the backseat, sweating l
ike a pig. Moaning, I reached for my phone in the console; twenty-four missed calls. I didn’t bother to check whom they were from. Instead, I climbed back into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and drove back to the abandoned field.
And then I started all over again.
Clayton had introduced me to weed. He’d said that I would probably encounter it sometime, and just like my first kiss, he’d wanted to be the one to show me. He’d told me that I shouldn’t smoke often, but if I ever felt like I needed to, he had to be there so he could stop me when I wanted to fall too deep. Too far.
But then I’d have bad days, like the anniversary of my mother’s death. Days where the pain was so unbearable, I wanted to forget all about it—about her and about my chances. But it wasn’t limited to just that one day a year. The older I got, the more pain I felt. And the more I wanted to forget.
The weed-booze mix was perfect when I wanted to lose myself. It was my nirvana.
The Road had been my master plan since I was thirteen. Not just because I wanted to see and appreciate the little things the world had to offer, but because I thought it would be easier not to feel for anyone—and vice versa—if I was never in the same place long enough to develop any meaningful relationships.
But the longer I stayed, the harder it got.
Like when Sammy had introduced me as his sister to his pre-K teacher. Or when Harry had asked me for advice on relationships and I hadn’t had the answers. For a second, though, I’d let myself think about it, and what it would be like to actually have a relationship or to fall in love. To have someone who loved me, regardless of my future. Regardless of the cancer. And regardless of how much of my life I could possibly give them. I’d thought about having kids. Raising them. Maybe fostering some, like Mary and Dean. And then I’d thought about how they would be at risk. And that at some point, that risk could take their lives. And all because I was selfish and wanted something for myself: a white picket fence, a beautiful husband, maybe with dark shaggy hair and perfectly clear blue eyes. And kids. Lots of kids.
See?
Selfish.
At some point, I’d wanted more than just the emptiness inside of me. And one night, when I’d been walking past a house party and had seen a bunch of kids flowing out the door and onto the front yard, I’d gotten it.
I didn’t remember his name. I didn’t remember what he looked like. All I knew was that we’d had sex, it’d hurt like a bitch, and that he’d used a condom.
Blake
I’d tried calling Chloe no less than a million times, give or take. She’d never answered. When I went to her house, Mary and Dean said she was out, and that they’d tried phoning but had gotten the same response. They said not to worry, that she’d disappear for a while when things got to be too much for her but she’d always come back fine. I asked if I could wait for her there. They both gave me a sympathetic smile but agreed. I waited on her porch steps for three hours. She never showed.
Then my phone beeped with a text. It was from Will: Your new girlfriend’s looking hot these days, and he’d included a picture of Chloe leaning against a wall. Her eyes were shut, makeup a mess all over her face. She had a bottle of something in her hand, but her grasp was loose, as if she was about to drop it.
I knew where the party was because everyone at school had been talking about it all week. I got in my car and sped the entire way there.
The volume of the music increased tenfold when I opened the door. I was already scanning the room for Chloe before I’d even fully stepped inside. “Hunter!” Sophie, Hannah’s best friend, was walking over to me. She plastered her body onto mine and wrapped her arms around my neck. I was trying to pull her off me when I caught sight of a mess of blonde hair and the tiny girl it was attached to.
She was coming out of the hallway, with one hand resting on the wall next to her, helping to keep her balance. Her head was down as she stumbled into the living room. She took another step, but her ankle twisted from her stupidly high heels. Will was there to catch her fall. And then she raised her head, her eyes half-hooded. She tried to straighten up with Will’s hand on her waist. She curled her arm around his neck and brought his face to hers.
My gasp was so sharp it surprised even me. The assholes around him cheered while he handed them his beer and pressed her up against the wall—not once breaking apart from their kiss. I wanted to move. I wanted to get him the fuck off her. But my feet were leaden, planted to the floor. His hand on her waist moved lower, past the hem of her short dress and onto her bare thigh. Then he gripped the back of it, pulling her leg up so his dick could get closer to where I was sure he wanted in. Another round of cheers; but they were drowned out by the rushing of blood in my eardrums. He pulled back slightly; whatever he must’ve said to her seemed to deserve high fives and pats on the fucking back. He dropped her leg, grabbed her hand and then led her down the hall.
Fuck. No.
I finally pried Sophie’s arms from around my neck and put one foot in front of the other. It was slow, my movements still getting accustomed to their apparent weight. By the time I’d made it to the hallway, every single muscle in my body ached from the tension. But my mind—my mind was clear. I pushed open every door possible, ignoring the screams or “fuck offs” I got when I interrupted something. I didn’t leave until I was sure it wasn’t Chloe in the room. By the time I got to the last door, my rage was all consuming. The door was locked, but I just kicked it down. Will’s mouth was on her breast, and his hand was down her panties.
Within seconds, I had pulled him off her and punched him twice in the face.
I wanted to kill him.
“What the fuck is your problem, Hunter?” He held his now-broken nose between his thumb and fingers. Blood poured from it and down his arm.
“What the fuck is my problem?” I yelled, yanking my arms away from whoever the fuck was holding me back. “You enjoy taking advantage of girls who are too wasted to know what the fuck is happening?”
“Fuck you! Get off your fucking pedestal! She’s the one that wanted it. She asked me to come in here!” He accepted the cloth that someone held out for him and placed it on his nose.
I looked down at the bed, but she wasn’t there. “Chloe,” I breathed out.
“Dude, that girl left.” I wasn’t there long enough to find out who’d said it.
I was out of that house faster than I thought possible.
A surge of relief washed over me when I saw her. She was folded over, with her head in the bushes at the end of the driveway, puking. I stood behind her, holding her hair out of her way.
“It’s okay, Chloe,” I said, rubbing slow circles on her back.
She threw up three more times.
By the time she was done, she was weak and struggling to stay upright. When she finally straightened up—wiping her mouth and lifting her eyes as she did—the expression on her face turned my insides to stone. “What the fuck are you doing, Blake?”
“Wh—?”
“You have no right to get in my shit like that. You have no right to burst into rooms, acting like a fucking superhero!”
“Chloe, you need to calm down. You’re beyond wasted, and you’re talking shit.”
I grabbed her arm so I could give her a hug and try to soothe her.
She let me.
And then she cried into my chest. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed.
I started walking us to my car. “I know, Chloe. It’s okay.”
She apologized four more times on the way to the car and then twice more once we were inside. By the time we got to Josh’s apartment, she’d passed out.
“What the hell happened?” Josh asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
“She’s wasted.”
His eyes rolled so high, I almost wanted to punch him, too. “Okay, Captain Obvious.”
“What the fuck do
you want me to say?”
“I don’t know, how about . . . how the fuck did she get like that in the first place?” He paused a second and narrowed his eyes at me. “Did you help her get like this?”
“No! She was like that when I found her.”
He sighed, and opened the door wider for us. “Put her in my bed. I’ll take the couch.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chloe
A doorknob turned. Footsteps. My eyes snapped open. I was a little groggy, but apart from that, I was fine. No pounding head, no need to puke. “Hey.” Josh was next to the bed, looking down at me with a huge grin on his face. “Morning, Chucky.”
“Chucky?” I took the glass of water and aspirins from his hands and downed them both.
“Yeah. You know . . . because of all the times you chucked last night.”
“Oh.” Heat crept into my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “All good. Made me feel like a kid again. Come out when you’re ready. I have someone I want you to meet.” He started to walk out of his room. “I set some clothes at the end of the bed. I didn’t think it was appropriate for me to strip you down and change you last night.”
“Fair point.”
“Yeah. And Hunter would probably kick my ass,” he said, before closing the door behind him.
After showering and putting on the sweats and shirt Josh had set out, I made my way to the living room. Tommy was on the floor, playing with blocks, while Josh was in the kitchen. Blake was nowhere to be seen.
“So you must be the famous Tommy I’ve heard all about.” I got down on my knees and watched as he stacked one block on top of the other. “Josh, how old is Tommy?”
He came out of the kitchen with two coffees in hand. I’d never been so happy to see coffee in my life. “Nine months and three days, why?”
I stood up and accepted the coffee but kept my eyes on Tommy. “How long has he been sitting up for?”
“Twenty-six days,” he said proudly, motioning with his head to the sofa. He waited for me to seat myself before taking the spot next to me. “Why?”